It's too early for that

Yesterday I got a fat envelope in the mail from New England Conservatory, where I went to grad school. It was heftier than the usual fundraising appeal letter, and it certainly wasn't an admissions packet. Curious, I opened it.

"Come to your 15th reunion!" it said.

"Why would I want to do that?" I thought.

Grad school for me was very much a means to an end; not the life-altering experience that college was. I was there to get my Masters' and get a jump on my singing career. Friendships were incidental. We all were in the practice room so much that there was little time, or emotional energy, to put into fostering close bonds.

The good folks at the NEC alumni office included a list of alums, which I put aside to review later. Who knows who I might remember? Also included was a shorter list of lost and deceased alumni. Most of the lost appeared to be former international students; I doubted they'd ever be found.

The deceased list was two names long. The first was Allan Hill. I didn't know Allan well; he was an undergrad clarinet major, and our paths didn't cross too often. He worked at the audio library, and would patiently fetch opera and lieder recordings for me with a bright smile. Allan was brutally attacked one day on his way home from school, and wound up in Boston City Hospital, where he died. He's been gone a long time; may he rest in peace.

The other name on the deceased list was a shock: Bethany Krenek. Beth lived across the hall from me in the dorm, and was my closest friend my first year at NEC. She brought her tuba all the way from Rockford, Illinois, to pursue her Masters' in performance. She was smart and funny, and we had some good times. We had kept in touch for a while after graduation, but had stopped exchanging Christmas cards some time ago. What had happened to her?

A Google search revealed little; Rockford-area obituary archives didn't include hers. Finally, I found a mention of a Beth Krenek from Illinois on a website dedicated to gynecological cancers. She had died of endometrial cancer on August 14, 1999. She was 30 years old.


How could she have been dead for 8 years without my knowing? What was I doing on August 14, 1999? What had she done in the six years she had since we had crossed the Jordan Hall stage? She was so young; why hadn't I been a better friend and kept in touch? Grief and guilt washed over me in equal measure.


I'm still processing this news. Mostly I am newly grateful for my own days since August 14, 1999.

Rest in peace, Beth.

Beth and I, NEC commencement, May 1993